


Looking for Toby

by MSobel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes To The Rescue, molly is a cat person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSobel/pseuds/MSobel
Summary: After a chance break-in at Molly Hooper’s house, Toby has gone missing. Can Sherlock help her find him?
Relationships: Molly Hooper - Relationship, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

Spaghetti straps in early February were a bad idea. Molly should’ve learned her lesson; after all, spaghetti straps in December had turned out to be a spectacularly bad choice and yet here she was, bare skin pimpling underneath her thin coat as she left the tube station to make her way home. Molly personally loved the way she looked in straps; it made her feel sexy and a little powerful. But the minute her date took his seat across from her and boldly ran his eyes across her skin, not bothering to hide his obvious lust, her confidence was replaced with an icky feeling of shame and embarrassment. Not unlike Christmas, although for different reasons. Sherlock had barely looked at her, and certainly his eyes hadn’t roved boldly. 

Either way, the date was over now and here she was, shivering in a pointlessly sexy dress as she walked home in the damp and chilly night. Her feet ached in her one pair of heels and she could feel a blister rubbing up on one ankle. Just lovely. Molly heaved a sigh as she crossed the street corner, nearly in sight of her house. A few more minutes and she’d be home, with its warm fireplace and fluffy carpet and perhaps an episode of Glee before bed with Toby curled up in her lap. That’s all she needed, really. Men were nasty anyway, or at least the ones she seemed to end up going on dates with. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t nasty, or icky, or anything like that, but—he was Sherlock. Sherlock, who was oblivious of her presence, Sherlock who had a habit of weaseling his way into her thoughts and making even the best of dates seem dull. Molly let her mind drift into the familiar daydream and for a moment was distracted from the cold and blistered heel. Then she lifted her hand to open her gate and all distractions left her as she noticed, with a sickening jolt—her gate was gaping open on one hinge, and something was horribly wrong with her house. 

* * *

Forty-five minutes later Molly was still standing in her yard, bare toes and fingers long gone numb, as she waited anxiously for the officers to check her house for intruders. She hovered on the walkway, vaguely aware of her neighbors conspicuously peering through their blinds to stare at the police car parked out front. Eventually one of the officers popped his head out and beckoned her in. “No one in here, miss. You’re all good.” Understatement of the century; nothing about this seemed  _ good.  _ Her guts were trembling violently as she stepped inside and looked with dismay at the shambles of her living room. One window was shattered and shards of glass glittered under the torchlight from the officer. Her telly was gone, the stand tipped over with a few cords dangling, and her couch cushions were disarrayed. Molly took it in all rather numbly, clasping her hand to her mouth as she looked around. After a moment the worst of the shock wore off and another warning went off in her mind to replace it. She stepped over the worst of the broken glass, flipping on her kitchen light and glancing around the room. 

“Toby! Here, kitty…” She called out, turning to glance at the officers. They were both loitering near the front door, obviously ready to leave. “Did you see my cat, in here?” She asked, a flare of anxiety welling up when they both shook their heads. 

“Didn’t see nothin’ but broken glass, miss.” The taller one offered unhelpfully. “I’m sure ‘e’ll pop up once the fuss is over, cats are skittish like that, y’know.”

“Of course I know that,” Molly replied distractedly, crouching awkwardly in her dress to peer under the couch. Nothing but darkness and bits of glass. Behind her, the officer spoke up again. “D’you need to stay with someone else tonight, miss? We can take you along if you’ve got somewhere to go.” 

She straightened up. “No, that’s fine. I’ll be fine here, thanks.” She didn’t feel fine, at all, but the officer shrugged, oblivious. “If you say so. We’ll file your report in the mornin’ then.” They let themselves out and Molly was relieved to see them go. As soon as the door shut behind them she tucked a cushion haphazardly onto the couch and dropped onto it, suddenly exhausted and shaking. 

“Toby, love, come out now. Here, kitty,” She tried again, voice strained and small. She held her breath and listened for any sound, a familiar mew or padding of feet. When nothing came, she clambered back to her feet, crushing a subtle wave of dread. She would check upstairs, surely he was hiding in her room or somewhere—anywhere in the house—he had to be. Molly yanked off her heels and hurried up her narrow flight of stairs, firmly telling herself that Toby was just hiding under her bed, that he was fine, she would find him in just a minute. 

* * *

At half three in the morning, Molly collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her dress and her hair still pinned up. Her house was scrupulously clean, every trace of the break in gone except for the cardboard taped over the broken window. Tears dried on her cheeks as she drifted into a fitful, exhausted sleep, keenly aware that she was completely and utterly alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Contrary to popular opinion, working in a morgue came with its advantages along with its disadvantages. Certainly, it always served as an excellent conversation killer during Molly’s first dates, a morbidly not-funny joke left to hang awkwardly between her and whoever she was attempting to impress this time around. This, along with the occasional case that was more upsetting than usual, were not a nice part of the job. But on the flip side, she liked being able to work alone, without having to make forced conversation with her coworkers and failing even more miserably at being funny. Of course, the days when Sherlock swept in and took over her entire workspace, along with her presence of mind, always left her flustered and feeling ridiculously foolish, but there were often days unmarked by any living visitors and she could work in a morbidly peaceful solitude. 

This morning, dragging herself out of bed after a fitful three hours of sleep, an exhausted and disheveled Molly was desperately hoping that today would be one of those quiet days. She had spent her few minutes before leaving for work doing yet another search around her house and garden in case Toby had materialized during the night, but nothing. So, she reluctantly left, blister rubbing against her work shoe and hair already frizzing because of the updo she’d slept in and then tried to brush out without washing. 

It seemed to be a slow day for dying, at least. Molly spent the morning moping, drinking too-sugary coffee, and fighting to stay awake, all the while picturing her beloved cat wandering the streets of London, hungry and wet, or worse. The horrible flights of imagination sickened her so that by early afternoon, when it still seemed that she had the place to herself, she couldn’t bear sitting around doing nothing about it. Barts had a computer lab on the floor above her equipped with a few ancient laptops, an ancient printer, and a newer color printer that no one was allowed to use for anything non work-related. So far, Molly had had no use or excuse to use it, but as horrible, horrible luck would have it, a color printer was just what she needed. She just hoped that luck would be on her side and she wouldn’t get caught using it for making ‘Lost Cat’ posters.

An hour or so later, Molly made her way back down to the morgue, clutching a sheaf of papers and attempting to look as professional as she could with flyaway hair, no makeup, and a poorly concealed feeling of guilt. She made it through the hallways without running into any nosy coworkers and breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped through the heavy morgue doors. She turned towards the room and only to find someone else already in there—a dark head bent over one of her microscopes, not moving a muscle in reaction to her small gasp of surprise. 

Sherlock. Of  _ course  _ he would come in today of all days. Molly hovered by the door, running a flustered hand over her hair as it would do anything to make it look better. 

“Hello, Sherlock...I didn’t know you were coming in today. Case, is it?”

He didn’t lift his head, and for a moment it seemed as if he hadn’t even heard her. Then his voice rumbled out from beneath his hair and the microscope, vague and supremely disinterested. 

“Not a case. I needed to use your microscope for an experiment.” Molly waited for some sort of follow up, but when nothing came, she gave up and crossed the room to the table beside him. There were plenty of other tables vacant. She set her papers down and fiddled with them for a moment, before rummaging in the desk for a Manila folder. 

“Another bad date, was it.” Sherlock said abruptly, still intent on the microscope. It wasn’t a question, and Molly felt a sudden wave of annoyance sweep over her. 

“It always is, and you always tell me so afterwards. How’d you even know this time? You haven’t even looked at me—never mind. I don’t want to know.” She cut herself short, partly out of frustration at his smug rightness and partly out of fear that he  _ would  _ look up and see how awful she was looking today. He didn’t. 

“Don’t need to see to deduce, Molly. You were favoring your right foot just now as you walked, so you must have been wearing a different pair of shoes last night, likely new heels that haven’t been worn enough to be broken in yet. You went out, but you don’t have any friends to go with, so it must have been a date. Am I wrong?”

Molly gritted her teeth. “No...but how did you know it was bad, then?” She regretted the question as soon as it came out, but it was too late. Sherlock smirked into the microscope. “You said it yourself,” He answered smugly. “They’re always bad. You should consider taking a sabbatical from the romantic efforts, Molly, it doesn’t do anything for your well-being or your numerous failed dates.” 

_ You always say such cruel things.  _ His blunt comment stung her as usual, even though it was all true. Her dates  _ were  _ always terrible, and the only steady variable among them was herself. Sherlock hadn’t said that, exactly, but the thought nagged at her anyway, just to add to the lovely time she was already having. 

“I do too have friends,” She muttered a bit peevishly, for lack of anything else to say in her defense. She stood at the edge of the table, looking down at the grainy photo printed on her posters. Toby stared back, his coy cat expression uncannily similar to Sherlock’s aloof poise, even though they were nothing alike. Her cat was the sweetest, most caring being in her life, and he was gone. Molly felt a sudden stinging behind her eyes as something that felt like heartbreak welled up in her chest without warning. She swallowed hard and managed to quell it, letting out just a small sniff and rubbing a hand across her bleary eyes. 

Sherlock glanced up at the sound, started to turn back, and then did a double take as he registered Molly’s disheveled appearance, now accompanied by red-rimmed eyelids and a quivering lip. Molly flushed as his eyes raked over her with a piercing intensity. 

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you...crying?” He demanded, faltering a bit at the mention of emotion. Molly, although she was thoroughly embarrassed by his attention, was caught off guard at the mild alarm widening in his eyes. She sniffed once more, turning her face away instinctively. 

“I’m not crying.” She protested weakly. “My house was broken into last night and now Toby’s gone missing. He must have got out the broken window.” She looked back at Sherlock just in time to see the puzzled expression as he tried to piece together exactly what she meant. 

“...Toby, your...boyfriend…?” He said finally, wrinkling his brow in confusion. 

“I don’t  _ have  _ a boyfriend, Sherlock. Toby’s my cat. I’ve told you about him before, don’t you remember?” 

“I deleted it.” Sherlock said briefly. He did not look any more enlightened than before, albeit the explanation seemed to slightly ease his initial alarm. “Did they take anything valuable? Was it a targeted attack?” 

Molly shrugged. “I don’t think so. They just took my telly and made a mess of my living room. That’s not what I’m worried about though, I’ve got to find my cat, that’s most important. I’m going to put up posters.” She gestured towards the papers and Sherlock looked down at them, letting out a confused scoff. “You’re offering  _ five hundreds pounds  _ for a housecat? How could it possibly be of that importance to you?” He sounded genuinely shocked, as if he simply couldn’t fathom such a thing. There was also a strong hint of condescension in his voice and Molly felt another flare of defensiveness. 

“Of  _ course  _ it’s important,” She returned, emotion turning her voice harsh. “I don’t have anyone else, not really, and he’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel bad about being me.” She should stop talking now, but something raw that was bottled up once again was coming loose and she couldn’t turn it off. Sherlock was watching her intently as she struggled not to tear up again. “I know you don’t understand, or you think it’s silly, but I don’t have anyone else. You say you don’t have any friends, but you’ve got John Watson to make you feel better about yourself, and I’ve got no one.” Sherlock flinched slightly, but she wasn’t quite finished. “Toby is just as good and as lovely as any person could be, and now he’s gone missing and I’m going to go find him because that’s what you do when you care about someone.” 

The words hung between them in the suddenly quiet morgue when she finished, taking a shaky breath as Sherlock sat frozen at the microscope. Molly, suddenly embarrassed at her own outburst, reached down and gathered up her flyers, intending to make a hasty exit and save what was left of her composure. Without looking back she crossed the room and pushed through the door, into the hallway, half-expecting Sherlock to stop her with some snide comment. He didn’t, however, and Molly made it to the end of the corridor before she realized abruptly that there was still forty-five minutes on her shift.  _ Bloody hell.  _ She hovered in the hallway for a moment, dreading the idea of going back into the same room as Sherlock after her outburst. In the end, there was nothing to avoid it, and her purse and coat were still inside too. Reluctantly, she turned and went back the way she came, opening the door only to nearly run into Sherlock where he was now standing, hovering directly on the other side of the door. Startled, she looked up at him, meeting his eyes briefly before brushing past with a muttered, “My shift’s not over yet…”. Once she set the folder back down on the table, Molly looked up to see him still standing there, watching her with the same pained, abashed expression he’d had at the Christmas party. She felt a pang of regret at the sight—he hadn’t really done anything that awful this time, and she’d blown up and then walked out. 

“You can keep on with your experiment, if you want,” She offered, only a little reluctantly. Sherlock made no move towards the table; instead he let out a little cough and shifted on his heels almost nervously. He swiped one hand through his hair. 

“Actually, I was wondering if you would like a coffee...I can bring it up here for you,” He offered hesitantly. Molly stared. 

__ “You obviously could use the caffeine,” He added, some of his confidence coming briefly back into his voice. “And um, it’s a friendly sort of thing, to have coffee. One thing Toby can’t do.” 

Despite everything, Molly let out a tiny giggle. The irony of Sherlock Holmes offering to have coffee with her, to be  _ friendly,  _ was not lost on her, although he almost certainly didn’t realize it. But it thawed out something inside her to see him, puzzled and almost embarrassed and making a real attempt to be nice. 

“Alright,” She said. “I’d love a coffee.” 


End file.
